ding-donged into illumination. "This was it'', he thought, a smile spreading across his face, "Bermuda''. The passengers on the airliner craned their necks in order to catch a glimpse of the island paradise which awaited them at the end of their journey. Nick caught a glimmer of yellow-tinged lights below.

It was dark by now, and cool inside the air-conditioned aircraft. The sight of the lights did not fill him with the warm, welcoming feeling which he experienced at the end of a hard days work as he arrived home. Nor did they remind him of the brash, vulgar holiday resorts he had visited in the past.

There the lights were blinding, the loudness of the music deafening, and the cheap perfume had been unable to camouflage the sweet smell of money changing hands. The lights which he now focused on twinkled like diamonds strewn over a piece of black velvet. For a moment he thought they were winking at him. As the plane got closer he realised it was the palm trees swaying gently in a light breeze which blocked the lights from view, ever now and again. The ink-black abyss of the Atlantic Ocean was spread below him. He felt like he was looking down into a wishing well. The lights were the stars reflected in the water of the well, and in his bucket he had caught the moon -- Bermuda.

Somebody had dropped a coin in the water, to make a wish, and the ripples caused the lights to flicker like candles caught in a draft. It had been a tough year at work. It was good to relax before the big push which would inevitably occur at the end of the month. For a moment, he let his mind slip back to thoughts of works. So much had changed. Technology was taking over the world. Just to keep abreast of the new products which had flooded onto the market that year had been a feat in itself. Sometimes Nick felt like a drowning man trying to keep his head above water. Quickly he admonished himself inwardly for wasting time on thoughts of work. A holiday was a time to unwind, relax, and recharge one's batteries. He did a lot of traveling with his job, but never really got time to see the places he visited. It was always rush, rush, rush. One deadline was continually being superseded by another.

This year however he had decided to treat himself to a week off. He was paying a return visit to a place which he had passed through during the course of his work, but like every other place he had not had time to stop. It had been difficult to decide where to go on his week off. However, the exotic pictures of palm trees, pink sand, and azure seas which he had seen in the tourist brochure had captured his imagination. There was an unquestionable mystique and kudos which was associated with Bermuda. Everybody he had spoken to had heard of the place, but nobody knew exactly where it was in the world. He had not known what he should pack for his trip. He was used to traveling on business -- which meant the obligatory suit. It had been difficult to decide what to wear. However, he had managed to find a "Berlitz Pocket Guide to the Island of Bermuda'' in the library and the temperature guide had been very helpful. Even though it was winter he would not be needing thermal underwear Friendly Bermuda faces greet Nick to the Island instruction for "cigarettes out, seat-belts on, landing cards and passports ready,'' were closely followed by the insincere "thanks for traveling with us and hope to see you again soon''. Nick noticed some of the other passengers visibly bracing themselves for the impending landing. He smiled to himself.

During his trips he had experienced quite a few bad landings and some notorious airstrips. Hong Kong instantly sprang to mind. It had been short, but not sweet. In comparison, this one was going to be a piece of cake. The plane plunked itself down on the runway like a pregnant swan alighting on the surface of a pond. Some of the more anxious passengers exhaled audibly with relief. Shortly afterward, having taxied to the terminal buildings the "extinguish cigarettes and please fasten your seat-belt'' signs were switched off. Thereafter followed the usual skirmish to get out. "Click, click, click'' went the seat-belts. It was a race to see who could get what out first, from where. Of course, they would still have to go through Immigration, wait for their luggage, and clear Customs. Nick wondered what all the rush was about. He was glad that his usual business arrangements avoided all this hustle and bustle. For the time being he gritted his teeth and smiled icily at the old lady who was ramming her travel bag into his thigh. Stepping out of the aircraft into the sweet night air was like stepping into a cloud. Nick felt the toil and fatigue of the past year draining itself away as if a great weight was being lifted from his shoulders. The air was heavy with humidity and the feint perfume of exotic flowers. It would have been nice to stop, breath, feel, sense and live. However, this was not the place. Nor apparently was there the time. People tumbled out of the aircraft, and dashed the steps, as if they had to get back to switch off a pan of boiling water which they had left on by mistake. Papers stamped, suitcase retrieved, and waved through Customs, his next tasks was to find at taxi cab to get him to the hotel. No sooner said, than done. He sank back into the taxi seat. He felt excited, yet relaxed. He did not usually travel by himself and up until this point he had been unaware of the tension which had been building up inside him. He was running on one hundred per cent pure adrenaline, diluted by a large brandy, and it felt good. "Your first time?'' asked the taxi driver. "No, not quite'', Nick replied. "I have been here before, but I was only passing through.'' "Which State you from?'' questioned the driver. "I'm not from the States,'' Nick had noticed that most of the other passengers on the aeroplane had been American. The taxi driver had made an obvious mistake. For the next week Nick became a tourist. He made a lot of passing acquaintances. However, by the end of the week he had adopted the story that he was on his first visit to Bermuda, and he was American. This avoided a lot of unnecessary and embarrassing questions. He noticed that most of the Bermudians he met had traveled widely in the States, so he had to be careful to pick an obscure place to come from. He was amazed by just how many people wanted to speak to him. The first time somebody said "Hello'' to him on the street he had been unable to speak for fear that he had been recognised. He had come to Bermuda to get away from it all. For a heart-stopping second he thought his cover had been blown. He was enjoying his rest, and the thought of the pandemonium which would break out if he was discovered made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. In his short week Nick traveled the length and breadth of the country. His best experience occurred whilst riding on the public transport buses. Armed with a sheet of bus tokens and the obligatory "Good Morning'', he was seated, and the bus was off. The buses were not the most modern or comfortable he had traveled on during his travels, but they went from "A'' to "B'' with a charm and style which came to characterise everything Bermudian for Nick. The outside of the buses were painted blue and pink. None of the drab, dinghy authoritarian colours which manifested themselves in some of the more dreary cities he had visited. The bus driver's name was appended at the front of the bus for all the passengers to see. Nick learnt quickly that the Nick feels secure on holiday in Bermuda group of school children who had been caught in the rain, and who had tried to alight the bus -- "There is no way I am having wet school children messing up this bus for other passengers. You should have taken a coat with you to school!'' Nick had been unfortunate enough to visit places in the world where the elders felt intimidated by the younger generation, and cow towed to their every whim and demand. Nick felt secure in a place where respect still had to be earned. The passengers on the buses were as varied and individual as the inhabitants of Bermuda itself. Babies crying, sleeping, dribbling and crying again; children swinging their too-short-to-reach-the-floor legs; adults talking about the weather; shoppers checking their purchases; tourists wondering, very loudly, if they were heading in the right direction; and workers wishing they were on holiday. He saw Rastafarians with copious quantities of hair neatly tucked inside brightly coloured, knitted hats; and Muslims wearing exotically patterned, flowing garments. He was amazed by the most fantastic woven hairstyles which some of the black ladies achieved, not to mention some of the bobble-filled and plaited heads of hair of their children. He had done a lot of walking during his week too. He had taken the time to stop and look at the flowers growing along the roadside. Morning Glory, Hibiscus, and Mother-in Law's tongue were just a few of the species which he recognised. The vast number of flora he could not name far outnumbered the few which he could guess at. He had wandered along rocky shores, and ogled at the audacity of the vegetation which struggled to survive against the pounding, salt, sea spray. The place seemed alive with growing.

Every tree trunk, lamp post, telegraph pole, and wall had been hijacked by a vine. Greenery sprouted up between the cracks in the pavement. Like the people, the plants seemed to be a cornucopia of different types, ages, shapes and sizes which had intertwined themselves in a blanket of survival. Each plant used its neighbour for support in its eternal struggle for air and daylight. Nick waited in line, the airport terminal building. His mind was filled with the images of yachts bobbing on crystal blue waters, whilst shafts of sunlight danced and played on the surface of a lulled, and lapping ocean.

He recalled the sounds of the yellow-chested Kiskadees trilling excitedly to one another; and the constant night-time whining of the miniature tree frogs.

A friendly face at the check-in counter beckoned him over. Nick knew his holiday was coming to an end. It was time to go home. Work was calling him. He would be in New York in two hours. From there he would catch his connecting flight. It would be cold when he got back home, but he had lots of photographs to remind him of the sun. He had also bought some Bermuda shorts -- red ones.

He could not wait to show them to his pal Rudolph! PHOTO SPECIAL AWARD WINNER -- Mrs. Sarah Dolan wins a prize for her short story entry entitled `Red Shorts for Christmas'. She is pictured receiving her award from Editor of The Royal Gazette Mr. David L. White. CHRISTMAS SHORT STORY CONTEST CPN